F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. If it were anyone else, he’d give her the brush-off. But this was Weezy.

Besides, she’d seen him kill three men this morning. She already knew plenty.

“Remember my telling you about those stunts I used to pull as a kid—you know, Toliver’s locker and Canelli’s lawn? Well, I’m still at it, only I get paid for it.”

“I’m not following.”

“I hire out to fix things.”

“Things? What sort of things?”

“Situations.”

“And how do you fix them?”

“Depends. I do custom work.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re a hit man.”

He knew she was thinking about the recent gunplay. He forced a laugh.

“No. I’ve lost count of the number of times people have tried to hire me to kill someone, but no, I don’t do that.”

“But you have . . .” She seemed afraid of the word. “I’ve seen you.”

“I do what’s necessary, Weez—to protect myself, people I care about, or a customer.”

“But you never hesitated, even for a second, and you didn’t look the least bit shaken or upset afterward—not the slightest sign of remorse or regret.”

“I’ve had regrets.” He thought of Hideo back in May. “But those guys? How do I feel bad about stopping someone from killing us? No regret there.” He smiled. “Is this where I start to sing ‘My Way’?”

She didn’t smile back. “I just can’t help wonder what happened to the sweet boy from Johnson, New Jersey. The kid we all called Jackie when we were little.”

He stared through the windshield.

“Shit happened, Weez. A whole load of shit happened.”

“But—”

“Let’s find a topic other than me. Like, how about them Mets? Some slump, huh?”

Weezy said nothing for a while and Jack concentrated on the road. He had the cruise control set at sixty-five and kept to one of the middle lanes. His New Jersey driver’s license was the best money could buy, and was supposed to be able to pass muster against a DMV computer, but he’d rather not put it to the test. So he drove carefully, avoiding any moves that might draw attention.

Lack of an official identity made for safe driving. Everyone should try it.

Finally Weezy heaved a sigh and said, “Okay. New topic: I have a big favor to ask.”

“Ask.”

“Will you go to Los Angeles for me?”

Uh-oh.

“Why?”

“I need you to talk to someone out there.”

“We have phones for that. Give me his number.”

“He won’t want to talk about this on the phone, maybe not even in person. I’m pretty sure I could convince him if we were face-to-face, but I need to study the Compendium . So I was wondering if you could go for me.”

“Is it that important?”

“Very. Kevin and I . . .” Her voice choked off. “Poor Kevin.”

After a moment she took a breath and continued. “Kevin and I have been looking for this man for a year now. Kevin finally tracked him down in L.A. We really need to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“After nine/eleven—”

Jack fought an eye roll. He’d heard enough about that day lately to last a lifetime.

“Everything seems to keep coming back to that.”

“Yes, it does. Odd, don’t you think?”

“I think we should be more worried about R and what he might be up to.”

“I’ve told you I have this feeling that somehow some way, they might be connected. And this man—his name’s Ernest Goren—may be able to provide a missing link.” She pointed to a sign announcing the presence of the Thomas A. Edison Service Area two miles ahead. “There’s our stop.”

The plan was to meet Eddie there. Weezy would transfer to his car and go home with him.

Jack nodded and kept to his lane. “I see it.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting over to the right?”

That was Jack’s natural inclination too, but he resisted it.

“Let me do the driving, okay?”

“But—”

“Please? Tell me about this Goren.”

“He was a member of one of the crews sent into the bowels of the Trade Center to look for remains of victims. No one expected survivors. Their job was to bag up any human remains and bring them to the surface for identification.”

“Nice.”

“Somebody had to do it. He was with a crew of four and—Jack, you’re going to miss the rest stop.”

The entrance to the service area lay just ahead. At the last possible second, Jack jumped lanes and angled onto the ramp. He slowed after he was off the highway, watching in the rearview to see if anyone else made a similar move.

Nope.

“Never thought you’d turn out to be a backseat driver.”

“I’ve been told I have control issues.”

“Says who?”

“Most of my therapists through the years.”

“Imagine that. Okay, back to Goren.”

“Where was I?”

“He was down in the wreckage looking for body parts.”

“Right. He was teamed with three others: Alfieri, Lukach, and Ratner. They’d worked together before. They all knew each other pretty well. They were deep down in the well of the Trade Center, along its eastern edge, when Lukach radioed back that they thought they heard voices down there. Well, that got everyone on the surface pretty excited.”

“I don’t remember hearing about that.”

Abe had been obsessed with the attacks and in their aftermath had read his stack of daily newspapers even more closely than usual. He’d given Jack a distillation of every new development as it happened.

“Because moments later tragedy struck. A cave-in crushed Alfieri, Lukach, and Ratner.”

“That I heard about.”

Their funerals had been media events, with the tabloids screaming how al Qaeda had claimed three more American lives.

“What you most likely didn’t hear about were reports from two workers elsewhere in the wreckage who said they thought they heard an explosion just about the time of the cave-in.”

No, he hadn’t—or at least Abe had never mentioned it.

He glanced at her. “Cover-up?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe just incompetence on the part of the investigators. They looked into it and supposedly found no evidence of an explosion.”

“And found no source for the voices, I take it.”

“Right. That was chalked up to an acoustic trick that allowed them to hear the voices of other workers elsewhere in the wreckage.”

“And you don’t buy that?”

Of course she wouldn’t. Weezy always seemed to have an alternate explanation for everything that happened. But she surprised him.

“Again, I don’t know. What I do know is that Ernest Goren survived the cave-in unscathed. Physically, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“He came out of the wreckage a mental basket case. He’d had a complete breakdown. When they asked him what happened down there, he just spewed word salad. His condition was chalked up to shock at seeing his friends get crushed.”

“But you’ve got a better explanation.”

Now the conspiracy.

“It’s possible he was faking to cover up something, but I think it was real. I think he saw something down there that blew his circuits.”

“That only happens in Lovecraft stories and B movies.”

“He was fifty-two years old at the time with a wife, a married daughter, and a grandson. His only known quirk was a belief in flying saucers, and not just the usual theories. He thought they came from inside the Earth. He was a member of SESOUP and—”

Jack shook his head. “Ah, yes. The Society for the Exposure of Secret Organizations and Unacknowledged Phenomena.”

She leaned forward to look at him. “You know them?”

“Well. Too well, in fact. I attended their convention at the Clinton Hotel last year.”